Make a Wish
by Stella For Star
Summary: Jack and Rose's lives are going well, but Cal's not having a good time anymore. He just wishes things could be different. And then, suddenly, they are. But can he maintain his new life? And will Jack let him? Yeah, I'm trying to keep things a little mysterious here in the summary. Will most likely have some M moments.
1. Chapter 1

**AN: Yes, there is an episode of Supernatural with a similar premise. I totally got the idea from it. **

_Pittsburg, Pennsylvania_

_January 1932_

Cal laid aside the sheaf of papers in his hand and turned off his desk lamp. Sighing, he pressed his head into his hands. The migraine was back. The tightness behind his eyes was almost unbearable. The deal was taking longer than he had anticipated. Every day, it seemed, new contracts were being sent over; their lawyers kept finding reasons to change something, anything. Everything was already to their advantage. He needed this deal; his company needed this deal, if it was to survive. And they knew it. This endless negotiation was just their way of making him feel weak.

And it was working.

He shambled over to the bar. The brandy bottle was nearly empty. "Of course," he muttered, filling his glass. "That moron Gibbons has been drinking in my office again." He gulped down most of the amber liquid in one gulp. Instantly he was rewarded with a warm, cozy feeling. "Now," he said, dropping back into his chair, "Let's see what new levels of degradation they've reduced me to."

…

_Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin_

Jack stomped the snow from his boots and stepped into the house. "It's gettin cold," he said, setting down an armload of wood. "This place does have some of the coldest winters around," Rose said, handing him a steaming cup. "At least, I think that's what I've heard." He sipped the steaming liquid slowly, grateful for the warmth enveloping his body. "I can't imagine where you heard that," he said. "Do we have more of this?"

"There's a whole pot in the kitchen. Take off those wet things and you can have it."

"Yes, ma'am," he said with mock solemnity.

"You may as well take off your pants as well," she said. "They're soaked to the knees." He raised an eyebrow. "Oh really? That the reason you're goin with?" She rolled her eyes but smiled anyway. She reached for his wet clothes. "Jack, if I wanted to get you naked," she said, leaning in close, "You would be."

…..

"Don't do anything without speaking to me first," Cal ordered. "Don't put their calls through to anyone else. Don't let them in to see anyone else." He buttoned his jacket and smoothed the front. "Is this clear?"

"Yes sir," replied his secretary, a small, pale blonde woman.

"Good." He swept past her. "I'll be back in a few hours."

"Sir, if anyone asks, where do I say you are?"

He tensed, mentally pushing against the pain behind his eyes. "Say—say I've gone to lunch. I'll be back in a few hours." She kept talking, but he didn't hear it. As soon as the elevator doors closed behind him, he sank against the wall, ignoring the curious glances of the operator. He would talk about what he had seen, of course, but caring about that was beyond Cal's capabilities.

He turned up his collar and tucked his hands into his pockets. Despite the cold, he preferred walking to being driven. At least when he was walking he had some control over what happened next. There wasn't anyone _looking _at him, _watching_ to see what he would do next. Before he knew it, he found himself being shown to his usual table at the back of a small, dimly lit Chinese restaurant. It was the sort of place he would never have set foot in only a few years earlier.

"Your usual drink, sir?"

He nodded. Leaning back in the chair, he wondered where everything had gone wrong. Hadn't he done everything he was supposed to? Gone to the right schools? Joined the right clubs? Married the right girl? He sipped his drink. Not only was it out of the way, but the liquor was strong—and affordable. He downed the rest of the glass in one gulp. A fresh glass was set before him almost immediately. Sighing, he pressed his hand to his forehead. The pain had begun to recede, but only slightly. At this rate, he would be up all night.

This was not how his life was supposed to go. Nearly bankrupt at 50, struggling to hold on to the one viable bit of his empire he had left, to say nothing of his family. He snorted and took a sip. And where was his wife during all of this? He lit a cigarette. "Probably out with that tennis instructor," he muttered. "Or the gardener, the cook, any man with a pulse." He chuckled bitterly. "Spending money I don't have." Though, he reminded himself, no-one else knew that. Only he and Diana knew the true state of their finances, and he had agreed to their silence, to keeping up the front. At the time, he thought it would be good for the business; if he were still prosperous while an economic catastrophe raged on, well, that would mean he was doing something right, wouldn't it? Investors would flock to him with their meager savings, begging to be let in one the secret. He would manage to rebuild the empire, even if it did take a little time.

Only it hadn't worked out. Rather than draw people in, his plan had driven them away. His former friends and associates, the ones who were still alive, that is, avoided him. They were scraping by, living in genteel poverty, and his continued affluence was an unendurable betrayal. Not for the first time, his thoughts turned to Rose. If he had married her—He pushed the thought away. His life wouldn't be any different. The market would still have crashed. And yet, he couldn't help but think, maybe, somehow things would have been different.

"She would be here," he said. "She wouldn't be off having affairs and leaving me to deal with everything. If she married a man who lost everything—" With a start, he remembered that, most likely, she had married a man who had nothing at all to lose. He had never actually thought of her as dead—despite what had been said officially, he had always known both of them had survived—but he had never given much thought to what her life might be like either. "Of course she married him," he said. "They've got half a dozen children, no money, and they don't care." He swallowed the last of his drink and signaled for a third.

….

"The radio was right. It looks like we're gonna be stuck here for a few days," Jack said, turning away from the window. "Well, we've got plenty of supplies," Rose said, shrugging. "It could be worse."

"Maybe I'll finally get around to finishing up in here," he said, casting a glance around the small kitchen. When they arrived at the start of the summer the house was still structurally sound but badly in need of repair. It needed a new coat of paint. Most of the windows were cracked or broken. Some of the floorboards were rotting; the stairs were hazardous. Anything useable had long since been carried off, including the furniture. Not to mention, it was filthy. And those were just the obvious problems, the ones they tackled first. Now, the house was not just livable again; it was downright cozy. Jack couldn't believe the transformation. It hadn't looked this good when he was a kid. His parents never had enough time or money to put into it, beyond keeping it from falling down around their heads, but now, thanks to a few wise investments and a distrust of banks, he finally did.

"Maybe you can fix that squeaky step," she suggested.

"What squeaky step?"

"The one you step on every night when you come down here for water," she answered. "Don't you hear it?"

"I didn't know you could. Sorry," he said, grinning sheepishly. "I'll fix it."

"Oh, that reminds me," Rose said, jumping up from her chair. "I found something in the attic this morning."

"You shouldn't go up there by yourself," he called as she rushed from the room. She returned a moment later lugging a wooden box. With a grunt, she heaved it onto the table. "Because it's safer for both of us to fall through the floor?" she said. "Here. Why don't you open it." It took a few tries, but he finally managed to pry off the lid. "I wonder what's in here," he said.

"Wouldn't it be something your family put up there?" Rose suggested. He was too busy sifting through the box's contents to reply. Given its size, there wasn't much in it, just a stack of photographs and a folder full of papers, all yellowing with age. "I wonder who put these here," he murmured. "Is that you?" she asked, looking over his shoulder. "Yeah," he said. "Yeah, that's me when I was five."

"You were adorable."

"Was I?"

She laughed. "You still have the same hair." He tossed his head. "Do not," he said. "That's me at ten," he said, flipping to another photo. "And that's my father."

"You look like him."

"You think so? I didn't, really. I thought I looked more like my mother. She should be—Here's one of them both."

"They look happy."

"Yeah." He smiled faintly. "I think they were happy together. You know, these past few months we've been here, I haven't really thought about them or my life then. I've been focused on just getting the place fixed, on what we were gonna do when winter came—on anything else."

"Maybe thinking about it was too painful," she offered. He shook his head. "No…maybe. It's been twenty-five years. I should be able to deal with it by now."

"Well, isn't that why you left?" Rose asked. "Because it was too painful to stay?"

"I never said that."

"You didn't have to. Oh, I know, you're an intrepid adventurer, and the road called to you." She laid a hand on his arm. "But you were also really young and lost your entire family." He covered her hand with his. "You're my family now. I think they would've liked you, though," he said. "Let's see what else is in here." He couldn't believe his eyes. The folders were full of drawings, starting with the obvious work of a small child and ending with the beginnings of a skilled artist. Each was signed and dated. "I didn't think these still existed," he said. "I gave a lot of 'em to my father, when I was a kid. I thought I threw some of these away. He musta saved them." Carefully, he closed the folder and set it back in the box.

"Here," Rose said softly, holding out a freshly filled mug. He took it with a smile. "Thanks," he said, pulling her into a hug with his free hand. "I'm glad you're here," he added.

"Where else would I be?"

After a long pause, he said, "Rose, I still want us to have a baby."

"I do too."

"Do you think it'll happen?" he asked. "Really, do you?"

"I haven't given up hope. It isn't as though we've been trying to all these years. Most of them we were trying to avoid it. And I don't regret that. We weren't sure yet. Being here makes you want it more, doesn't it?"

"Yeah," he admitted. "I've been thinking about it more. What it would be like." She pulled him into a kiss. "Let's go see if we can make it happen," she murmured.

…..

Cal managed to walk across the restaurant without stumbling. His head barely hurt now; if he got home soon he might be able to sleep. So what if it was only six? So what if he hadn't gone back to the office? "Won't be my office for long," he slurred, reaching for the door. Out of the corner of his eye he noticed a silver wishing well. Had it always been there? The door forgotten, he moved toward it, digging in his pocket for a coin. It was nearly full. The owners made a fortune off it, no doubt. "What do I wish?" he asked himself. "I wish…I wish I didn't have to deal with any of this. I wish I didn't care. I wish I had enough money to be comfortable—to do what I want. I wish my wife wasn't such a bitch. I wish I were married to Rose." He shook his head and was about to turn away when a new thought struck him, "I wish I knew what it was like to be him," he said, tossing the coin into the water.

The house was silent when he finally shuffled inside. The lights were off. The few remaining servants were already gone for the day. He didn't bother locking the door before heading upstairs. He forced his eyes to remain focused long enough to pull the box from his closet. He tossed the lid aside. The box's contents soon followed. Triumphantly, he lifted out a silver framed photograph. "I knew it was there," he said. Before falling into bed, he knocked the phone to the floor. "I am taking no calls," he cried, laughing.

….

Jack snuggled closer to Rose, tightening his arm around her. "Don't get up," he murmured sleepily. "It's cold out there."

"It's barely six," she said.

"So?" He kissed her neck. "Who says we can't stay in bed?" His hand slowly moved down her body. She gasped softly. "Jack…"

"Hmm?"

"That's not fair," she moaned. In one quick motion she rolled over and onto him. He grinned up at her, wide awake now. "Still wanna get up?" he asked.

…

"Rose?" Jack reached out but his hand met only empty space. He shivered. Yawning, he opened his eyes, expecting to see Rose on the far side of the bed, clutching the blankets, but instead, he saw a room he had never seen before. "What the hell?" he said. He sat up, looking around slowly. Instinctively, he called out for Rose again, but there was no answer. He didn't recognize the suit he was now wearing. "What is going on?" Shivering, he pulled the blankets up to his chin and lay back down. "Rose?" he called, hoping vainly to hear an answer. "Anyone?"

Suddenly angry, he leapt out of the bed. There had to be someone around who could explain what was going on. People didn't just fall asleep in their own beds and wake up in another—and wearing strange clothes, no less. He hurried down the hall, hugging himself against the cold. The house was eerily still. He flipped on every light he saw, but lights on or off, the rooms gave just as many clues as to his whereabouts. Whoever lived in this house had expensive taste, though most of the furnishings on the second floor were missing. There were no personal items, no family photographs. Sighing heavily, he flipped on the light in the room he started out in. Unlike the others, someone clearly lived in it. His gaze immediately fell on the silver framed photograph on the bedside table.

"What?" he cried. Rose smiled politely up at him, looking exactly as she did the night he met her. Hands shaking, he dropped the photo. "What the fuck is happening?" he yelled. He attacked the closet, pulling clothes from hangers, throwing shoes, desperate to find a clue. Out of breath, he leaned against the wall. And that's when he saw Cal's reflection in the mirror.

…

Cal lay awake, his eyes closed. The bed was warm, as though someone had tucked the blankets around him. He heard the sounds of someone stirring on the next floor. Three servants left out of a staff of twenty, and out of that three none of them knew how to do anything quietly. "I'll fire them all," he said, forcing himself to sit up. He rubbed a hand across his forehead and was surprised to feel hair. He ran his hand over the top of his head. "Where did—" He touched his bare chest. "When did—" Puzzled, he brought his hands up to his face. "Those aren't—" He froze at the sound of approaching footsteps.

"Jack, are you up yet?" Rose called. She smiled as she came in. "I don't know how you managed to sleep so long," she said.

"What?"

"After you get dressed, will you come help me with the stove?" she asked, placing a swift kiss on his hair. "I can't get it to stop smoking." She held up her hands. "Yes, I did things to it without you there. A grave mistake. One you can easily correct with just a touch of those skilled hands." He stared after her, speechless. "But I did make breakfast," she called. "Or lunch, rather."

….

"No. No. No. No." At first all he could do was stare in the mirror; he had stood like that for hours. But now, with the sun climbing higher in the sky, Jack couldn't keep still. "No. No." He paced the room, a cigarette in his hands. "This is not happening. No. It's not happening. No. Stuff like this doesn't happen. This isn't real. No." He took the last drag off the cigarette and tossed it to the floor. Immediately, he lit another one. "Okay," he said, sitting down on the bed. "I just hafta figure this out. There is an explanation for this. I. Am. Not. Him."

"Mr. Hockley?"

He jumped at the sound of another voice. A young woman with light brown hair, wearing a maid's uniform, stood in the doorway. She eyed him with a mix of concern and distrust. "Are you alright, sir?" she asked.

"Uh—me? Uh—I'm fine," Jack replied. He struggled to appear calm. "What, um, what do you need?"

"Sir, your office is on the telephone. Apparently, it's urgent. Also, your wife phoned. It seems she won't be home until tomorrow."

"My wife? Oh, right, my wife. And my office?"

"Yes, sir, they'd like to speak with you immediately."

"Uh—just tell them I'll be in soon," Jack said. "I'll take care of—everything then." Once she was gone his head fell into his hands. "This is not happening," he said.

…..

Cal walked slowly down the stairs. It wasn't much, but the house was certainly more than he had expected them to have. He followed the sound of Rose's movements to the kitchen. A blast of cold air hit him as he stepped into it. The window was wide open, a cloud of black smoke rushing out of it. And she expects me to fix it, he thought. Because he can fix it. He bent down, as if to examine the stove, but watched Rose from the corner of his eye instead. She moved around the kitchen happily, unaware of anything out of the ordinary was going on. "I…am him," he whispered, a smile spreading across his face.


	2. Chapter 2

AN: I know it's taken a while for this update, but I got really busy and a bit unsure of which direction I wanted the story to go in.

As much as Jack didn't want to waste time bathing, he knew there was no getting around the sour taste in his mouth and the faint odor of alcohol radiating from him. Unfortunately, even something as simple as brushing his teeth was difficult in Cal's body. For the first time, his hands felt clumsy; it was as if he were learning how to use them all over again. Every time he caught sight of his reflection in the mirror a new wave of disbelief washed over him. He dressed quickly, donning whatever garments his hands fell on. Despite being tailor-made to fit his body, Cal's clothes felt stiff and unnatural. He checked the pockets of Cal's coat and was disappointed to find them empty save for some change and a few crumpled dollar bills. "Shit," he hissed. Frantically, he began searching through the drawers. "Yes!" he cried, grabbing a checkbook. Next to it was an envelope full of cash; he didn't bother counting it. He stuffed both into his jacket pocket, threw the coat over his arm, and ran from the room.

…..

Cal held the shovel awkwardly, unsure of what to do with it. His task was to clear a path from the front door to the woodpile, and the longer he thought about it, the more certain he became such a feat was impossible. Somehow, he didn't know how—just as he didn't know exactly how he had stopped the stove from smoking—he had managed to wrestle the door open. He took a deep breath and squared his shoulders. "I can do this," he said. "He can do this. I'm him." As he attacked the snow, Cal wondered if perhaps Jack's skills would come naturally; after all, he was occupying his body. Wasn't there such a thing as muscle memory?

"You shouldn't make yourself sweat in this cold," Rose called. She hurried toward him, bundled in a thick wool coat and scarf. "You'll get pneumonia if you're not careful." He leaned against the shovel, struggling to catch his breath. "You've gotten a lot done," she added. He looked around and was amazed by just how much progress he had made. "Yes, I have," he said. "This wasn't as difficult as I thought it would be." She shot him a quizzical look. "You say that like you've never done it before," she said.

"Oh—well, this is particularly heavy snowfall," he explained. "The surface of the snow is—frozen." He tapped the snow with the shovel. "See?"

"I see," Rose said slowly, keeping her eyes on his face. "Jack, are you feeling alright?" He smiled brightly. "I feel great," he answered. She studied him for another moment. "Maybe you should come back inside," she said. "I'll help carry the wood."

….

Getting to the train station was easy, but getting onto a train was another matter entirely. He shifted his weight from one foot to another and silently willed the line to move forward. Finally, after half an hour, it was his turn. "I'd like a ticket to Chippewa Falls, Wisconsin," he said.

"I'm sorry, sir," replied the ticket agent. "But that isn't one of our stops. Would you—"

"Right," he said. "Right. I knew that. I need a ticket to Eau Claire, then."

"When—"

"As quickly as possible." He leaned forward on the counter. "Today. In the next hour."

"We don't have anything for today, but do have a few tickets left for three days from now. Would—"

"Do you have anything else?"

"Sir?"

"Anything for today that comes close to there?" He fought to keep his voice steady. The people behind him were starting to murmur, but he didn't care. "Let me check," the agent said. Jack fidgeted waiting for her to finish reading the schedules. "We have a train leaving in half an hour for Springfield, Illinois. It will arrive tomorrow afternoon. There's a train leaving tomorrow night at eight for Madison, and from there you can take the nine am train to Eau Claire." She looked up at Jack expectantly.

Two days. It would take two whole days to get home. "Fine," he heard himself say. "Gimme the tickets." He was dimly aware of handing the agent money, taking the tickets, and walking toward the platform, but he couldn't have described any of it if asked. His mind was filled with thoughts of Rose and all the things that could happen in two days.

…..

"What's that smell?" Cal asked excitedly. "It's Italian spinach soup," Rose said, taking the lid off a large pot. When he didn't respond she added, "Your favorite?"

"Oh—oh, yes, right," Cal said quickly. "My favorite." He laughed. "I must be coming down with something after all. I'll just go see about that squeaky step you mentioned." Rose watched him go, her eyes narrowed. Something was off, but she couldn't pinpoint what exactly. There was just something _different_. Maybe—She sighed. "Maybe nothing," she said, giving the soup a final stir. "Maybe he really is getting sick. Maybe we've just spent too much time together in this house over the past few weeks. Maybe I'm bored and just looking for something interesting to focus on." She set the lid back on the pot. "Maybe…" She went into the hallway. "Jack?"

He didn't respond. He sat on the stairs, hammer in hand, looking lost. A pile of nails was on the floor next to him. "Jack?" she said, again, louder this time. He still didn't respond. Eyes narrowed, she walked toward him. "Jack," she said, placing a hand on his shoulder. He jumped back. "What?" He looked around, as if he didn't know where he was. Recognition flashed in his eyes when he saw Rose. "Did you need me?" he asked.

Studying him intently, she smiled. "Do you want to go for a walk?" she said.

….

Despite the cold, it was a bright, sunny afternoon. As they moved further away from the house, Cal realized, for the first time, just how isolated they were. And where exactly were they? Obviously, it was their house, but everything looked new—and more expensive than he expected. "What are you thinking about?" Rose asked.

"Nothing," he said, flashing a quick smile. "It's nice out here, isn't it?" She nodded. "I love it," she said. "We should have come up here sooner."

"Yes, definitely," he said. "We should spend more time here."

Rose hid her confusion. "But I thought you wanted to leave in the spring." Cal searched for the right answer. "I—I did," he replied. "But now that we're here, why not stay? We need a permanent home, right?" He knew it was a mistake as soon as he said it. Rose was staring at him, studying his face like it was something only vaguely familiar. "Last night you said you didn't want to raise our children in a small place like this," she said. "What changed?"

"I—uh—" The blast of a rifle in the distance saved Cal from having to respond. "We should head back toward the house," he said, putting his arm around her waist. "We're getting too close to the hunters."

Rose kept sneaking glances at him as they walked. A vague feeling of unease settled over her; something was definitely not right, but what? He grinned when he caught her eye. She smiled back, telling herself it was just her imagination. So, he was rethinking things. What was wrong with that? Her thoughts were interrupted by him stopping and pulling her closer. "You're really beautiful," he said, lightly caressing her cheek with the back of his hand. "I know I've said that before, but I don't think I ever really looked at you until today."

She covered his hand with hers. "Jack—"

"I love you," he said. "I've said that before, too, but I didn't really mean it then." Looking away from his eyes was impossible. They were exactly as they had always been, and yet….Rose tried to ignore it, tried to stay in the moment. One hand was in her hair, the other pressed against her back. His lips hovered just inches from hers. There was a hunger in his touch, in his gaze, that she had never seen.

Rose couldn't remember the rest of the walk back to the house. She didn't remember anything after he started kissing her. Her head spun; her knees buckled. She clung to him as he carried her inside and up the stairs. She struggled for air. Her clothes felt heavy. Getting them off was taking too long; her hands didn't seem to work anymore.

But his did.

Rose didn't know how to explain exactly what was different, but she was sure _something_ was. His kisses were the same—yet not. His hands felt the same—yet not. He hesitated; he was almost clumsy. At times, she wasn't sure if he was really there. His eyes seemed so distant. What was he thinking about? Her mind drifted back to the previous night. She smiled, growing warm at the memory. How could so much have changed in such a short time?

She looked over at him. He still looked young, but when he slept he looked even younger. She brushed the hair away from his eyes. A cold knot formed in the pit of her stomach as she realized what was wrong. It wasn't just that he was talking and acting differently; there were explanations for that. But rather, it was that she no longer felt connected to him. He could have been a stranger lying there, his arm draped across her, and that was something Jack had never felt like.

….

Jack slumped down in his seat. It was after midnight, but sleep was impossible. Every time he closed his eyes he saw her. What was she doing? Did she know something was wrong? Or was she—No, he told himself, she knew something wasn't right. He rubbed his aching eyes. They were due to arrive in Springfield at two, just about twelve hours away. He burrowed down into his coat and closed his eyes. One way or another, he would have to sleep; there was no way his body could make it the rest of the trip without it—nor could his mind, for that matter.

He wondered what was happening back in Pittsburg. Had an alarm been sounded when Cal never showed up at his office? Cal was many things, but Jack was sure that neglectful of his business wasn't one of them. What about his wife? The maid had said she wouldn't be home for a few days, and from the way she said it Jack felt sure that wasn't unusual. He went back over the house in his mind; suddenly the lack of furnishings made sense. Cal had sold them. Of course. It was 1932, not 1912; the house was just for show. Everything in his life was probably just for show.

Jack knew what was happening didn't make sense. He knew if he told anyone they would think he was crazy, and he didn't blame them. But it was happening; it was real, and somehow, he didn't know how, but somehow Cal had done it. It wasn't a coincidence they switched bodies during what was probably the lowest point in Cal's life.

Jack woke up just in time to gulp down a small lunch before the train stopped in Springfield. He was still rubbing sleep from his eyes when he descended into the crowded station. "Just how in the hell am I gonna kill six hours?" he wondered aloud. He buttoned his coat against the wind and headed toward the waiting area.

…..

Jack's stiff muscles screamed in protest as he stretched. Something in his back popped. He yawned loudly. Finally, it was time to board the next train. He took the first available seat by the window and slumped down, preparing for another seemingly endless night. He pretended not to notice when a slight, blonde woman sat down next to him. She pulled a book from her bag and opened it but didn't read. Instead, she turned to him. "Don't you just love the snow?" He grunted in response. The ache in his eyes was back, and it had spread across his head. "It's so beautiful in the country this time of year," she said, oblivious to his disinterest. "Do you live in Illinois? I'm Celia, by the way."

"No," he muttered.

"Neither do I," she said. "I've been here visiting my cousin. I'm on my way back home. Do you live in Wisconsin?" Jack sighed. "Yes," he said, settling for the simplest answer. He closed his eyes, hoping it would keep her from speaking again. "Oh, what part?" she asked. "I live in Madison, myself." Before he could answer she added, "I just hate how drafty these trains are, especially at night. Don't they seem colder at night?"

"Well, it does tend to get colder at night," he said. She laughed. "I suppose that's true," she said. "But wouldn't you think they'd turn the heat up higher then?"

"I don't know."

"I think they should. It's a shame how these rail companies take advantage of their customers," she said indignantly. Jack pressed his hand against his forehead; the pressure brought a tiny bit of relief. "Oh, I'm sorry," she said. "Do you have a headache?" He nodded. "I do," he replied. "And here I am, talking your ear off," she said. "I'm sure you'd prefer some peace and quiet." He forced a small smile. "It's alright," he said.

Two hours later, when his head felt like shattered glass, and she was still talking, he wished he hadn't been so polite. He was just about to nod off when the train came to a sudden stop. He pitched forward, grabbing the back of the next seat to steady himself. The woman next to him shrieked. Her hand clamped around his wrist. "What's happening?" she said.

"I don't know," he replied. "Stay here. I'll find out."

…

"There you are," Cal chirped, hugging her from behind. He didn't notice Rose stiffen at his touch. "Here I am," she said, her voice shaking slightly. Her heart beat faster. What was happening? He reached around her for the coffeepot on the stove. She slipped past him and was heading for the door when he said, "Did you already eat?"

"Yes," she replied, not turning around. "Yours is next to the coffee."

"Oh. I didn't see it. Thank you."

"Uh-huh."

She didn't wait for him to speak again. Rose didn't know where she was going; she just knew staying in the same room with him was impossible. She couldn't bear to look at him. What was wrong with her? She pulled on her coat. It had to be her. Didn't it? The cold air stung, but she kept going. The snow crunched merrily beneath her feet. Overhead, the sky was a bright, clear blue. That morning the radio had said they were due for more storms, but that didn't seem possible. Rose couldn't remember the last time she had seen a more beautiful day.

She walked without a destination, sure the tracks in the snow would keep her from getting lost. Jack had warned her against that, but for the first time she ignored what he had told her. She tried not to think about him at all, but the more she told herself not to the more she focused on him. What was he doing? Did he know she had left? Did he care? That was silly; of course he cared. Maybe, she told herself, he also sensed something was wrong. She shook her head. He would have said so. But then again, most of what he had done since the previous morning was so unlike him, how could she be sure?

Rose sighed. "If I could just ask him…" She looked back in the direction of the house, and for the first time in twenty years, felt alone.

….

Jack breathed onto his hands, vainly trying to coax some feeling back into them. "Are you sure you don't want your coat?" Celia asked. He shook his head. "You keep it," he said. He shoved his hands into his pockets and hunched his shoulders. The thin suit jacket was useless against the cold steadily seeping into the train car. They hadn't moved in four hours, and the small supply of coal onboard was being strictly rationed. Celia eyed him with concern; her hands were on the coat's buttons, ready to hand it back if necessary. "I'm fine," he said, flashing a quick smile. "Besides, it shouldn't be long now."

"That's what they said an hour ago," Celia grumbled. "And the hour before that. Do you really think someone's coming to help?"

"Yeah, I think so. It's just ice on the track and a coupla broken wheels. Nothing to worry about."

"You believe that?"

"Don't you?"

Celia's mouth was thin. "I don't know," she said. "It seems like the kind of thing they would tell us to keep us calm. You know, I read the crew didn't admit to the passengers that the _Titanic_ was sinking until it was too obvious to ignore."

Jack's heart skipped a beat. His ears filled with the sound of the ship cracking in two. His head spun as suddenly he felt himself rushing, down, down, down, ice cold water splashing his face—

"Are you alright?" Celia tentatively laid a hand on his shoulder. He stared at her, eyes wide with confusion and fear. "What?" he gasped. "Where—" He closed his eyes as it all came rushing back. Of course, he wasn't on the ship anymore; he wasn't in the water. How could he have thought such a thing? But it had felt so real. He pressed his hands against his face and forced himself to breathe normally. "I'm fine," he said finally, lifting his head.

"Are you sure?"

"Yeah," he insisted. "I just had a second—I remembered something. You ever do that?"

"I don't think I've ever remembered anything quite like that," Celia said, smiling weakly. Jack forced a laugh. "You should be glad," he said. They turned as the door at the end of the car opened. "The wagons have arrived," the conductor announced. He moved quickly through the car. "Six people to a wagon. There are only three, and the first eighteen are already being loaded. We're going in order of car, so be prepared for your turn." A low hum filled the air as the passengers around them took in the news. The sound of suitcases being gathered and purses snapping shut joined the hum.

"It's a shame they couldn't send cars," Celia remarked. "It would certainly get this finished a lot faster."

"They probably figured horses were more reliable in the snow," Jack said.

"Maybe. But it's going to take another four hours before we make it into town." Celia slumped against her seat. "You'll be frozen solid by then," she added. "And I'll have starved." She slipped out of his coat. "Take it," she said. "Mine is enough."

"Alright," he said, after a moment of hesitation.

A low grumbling spread through the passengers as the realization that their rescue would not be a swift one set in once again. Celia sighed loudly. She opened her book, but the light was too dim for reading. "Hey," Jack said, leaning toward her. "Do you wanna hear a story?"

…..

Rose slipped from the bed and tiptoed across the room. The floor was like ice against her bare feet. She dressed quickly. With any luck, she could be out of the house before he woke up. Guilt gripped her as she silently rushed down the stairs. Was she doing the right thing? She looked over her shoulder and saw only the dark landing. The house was silent and cold. No, she decided, the right thing would be to stay and talk to him. How was he supposed to know something was wrong if she didn't tell him?

_But_—

There was that nagging voice in the back of her mind.

_But he never had to be told before_.

She never tried to talk to Cal; that was wrong, wasn't it? Shaking her head, she stirred up the fire in the stove. "Why am I thinking about that?" she wondered. "He knew I wasn't happy. He couldn't understand why. Trying to explain would have been a waste of time." She filled the coffee pot and set it on the stove to boil. Cal's voice filled her ears. _I know you've been melancholy._ _I don't pretend to know why. _She frowned at the memory. "You didn't ask," she snapped, her voice echoing in the silent room. A nervous giggle escaped her throat. "What is wrong with me?"

Soon the smell of freshly percolated coffee filled the air. Rose breathed deeply, enjoying the scent. She had always enjoyed the scent of coffee more than actually drinking it. Slowly, she filled half a cup. A slight smile crossed her face as she remembered how Jack teased her for filling the rest of the cup with milk and sugar. Just a few days before he had leaned against the sink, watching her pour a cup. "Why bother adding the coffee at all?" he had asked. "Just drink milk and sugar."

"If I wanted milk and sugar," she replied tartly, "That's what I would drink. This is how I like my coffee. I don't need to be able to stay up for five days on one cup." She laughed as he pulled her to him. His arms snaked around her waist. "You remember that coffee we had in Berlin?" he asked.

"Of course."

"Which you did not drink correctly," he added, grinning. She rolled her eyes. "Jack, you—"

Footsteps broke through her reverie. She sucked in her breath, bracing for the change in the air Jack's presence would bring. She turned, and for a moment everything was as it should be. Her heart lifted. A smile began to form. Until she looked into his eyes. The change in them sent a shiver down her spine.

"Is something wrong?" he asked. She shook her head. "Everything is fine," she said, struggling to keep her voice steady. She slipped around him as he moved toward the stove. "You're up early," she said, keeping her back to him.

"No earlier than you," he replied. He slipped an arm around her, hugging her from behind. There was something familiar about it, but she didn't know what. It wasn't like the way Jack usually hugged her at all. She forced herself to smile when he kissed her cheek. If he knew it wasn't real, he didn't let on. The air seemed to be pressing against her. More than anything, she wanted away from him.


End file.
